Nothing Goes as Planned in the 'Verse
by Lady Cleo
Summary: When a crazy girl slashes your chest and months later you find yourself dreaming about her in exotic settings, you don't go telling the world about it, much less your crewmates.
1. Nothing Goes as Planned

Nothing Goes as Planned in the 'Verse.

By Lady Cleo

All Disclaimers Apply.

He makes sure they don't look like her. Blondes, red heads, any kind of hair as long as it wasn't that rich color of brown. Can't be small and lithe and skinny, must be full figured, taller then her. And they can't have big round eyes that stare straight through a man's soul.

But sometimes it doesn't work, it doesn't matter.

When he closes his eyes he unconsciously imagines it's her beneath his fingertips. Creamy and pale skin that's soft to the touch. Long spindly legs, that wrap around him with a dancer's grace. And when his hands dive into hair he imagines it's long and wild brown waves that tumble over her shoulders.

He's caught himself moaning her name on occasion. They always ask what it means. Why did he say that? And he brushes them off with a dirty joke or a laugh. Can't admit it to himself, why should he admit it to them.

He doesn't like it, but he can't help it when he imagines it's her moaning beneath him. He would stop it if he could, but it's almost out of his control. He blames it on the dreams.

He doesn't dare choose a girl that even remotely looks like her, cuz that will remind him of his sick little fantasies. It could get back to the ship, and everybody could learn about his… well he wasn't sure what it was. But when a crazy girl slashes your chest and months later you find yourself dreaming about her in exotic settings, with her fingers exploring places no crazy girl should… well you don't go telling the world about it, much less your crewmates.

So he finds other outlets whenever he can afford them, whenever he can get away from the ship for an hour or two.

But nothing ever goes as planned in the 'Verse.

He was fine when the dream settings were exotic beaches or desert moons, when the backgrounds were unrealistic; fancy hotel rooms he'd never known with threes types of champagne he'd never drunk and satin sheets the clung to sweaty bodies. After those he could find a woman to pay or a one night stand and forget about the fake unrealistic sex-with-the-crazy-girl dreams.

And it was enough at first.

But nothing ever goes as planned in the 'Verse.

Addictions can weaken with denial… or they can grow.

Things change over time.

They get worse or better, one way or the other.

The setting became his bunk, always his bunk, and they wouldn't tumble through the sheets like they used to. The lighting was no longer bright starlit skies but the dark poor lighting of a space ship. The silence of music was replaced with hard grunts and long moans. Whispered words that he didn't understand pouring from her lips, her name drawn out from his own.

He would feel her nails digging into the flesh of his back, her teeth biting into his shoulder, her legs clamping around his waist. And he would wake in a cold sweat, expecting to find her draped over his body, Mal climbing down the stairs and demanding to know what the hell was going on.

But it never happened.

He'd always wake up very much alone and he'd check the mirror for the bite mark on his shoulder, imprints from her nails down his back. But the only mark she'd ever left was the one across his chest that was fading slowly over time.

Suddenly the women that made up for the dreams weren't enough. He'd come back to the ship just as tense and moody. He would catch the crew joking about how he probably had gotten any.

The dreams didn't stop coming, and he gave up trying to subvert them with other women. Instead he focused on just keeping his hands off the thing that his entire psyche and body screamed for.

He avoided her like she was a reaver. Never sat within her field of view, never looked her in the eyes. He never came within a decent speaking distance, much less touching. He avoided the infirmary and the guest quarters like they were plague ridden, jumped at any chance to get off ship and away from her. He'd bitch and moan whenever Mal wanted to leave him on the ship to such a point that the captain never even asked anymore, just assumed that he was coming with him. And that was fine with him, just as long as he didn't have to see her, hear her. If he could avoid her enough maybe he might be able to stop them from coming.

But nothing ever goes as planned in the 'Verse.

And the dreams got worse.

More detailed then before, longer then before and in different familiar places; the infirmary, the cargo bay, the dinning room, the guest quarters, the pilot's chair. Places that with other women he may have considered fun, but with her were dangerous and almost exotic nightmares.

He would wake up shaking, trembling with fear, unable to get back to sleep. It was getting harder and harder to even close his eyes for a second.

Doc asked if he was sleeping okay, offered to provide a drug to help him.

Kaylee made a comment about the bags under his eyes.

Book said he should try to get some rest, recommend a tea.

Inara offered some herbal spices and some of those smelly sticks she called incense.

Wash joked about him being haunted. And when no smart ass comment followed, Wash frowned and added worriedly that he really outta see about getting some shut eye.

Zoe cornered and grilled him on the subject in her quite manner, her eyes threatened that if this started getting in the way of work she would make sure he got enough sleep, forcibly if need be.

Mal asked if there was anything he wanted to talk about, and when no answer came ordered him to get some rest.

But nothing ever goes as planned in the 'Verse.

He broke down when he almost passed out. Talked to the doc, asked if he could give him anything that would knock him out into a dreamless sleep.

Drug gave him a week of good uninterrupted sleep, no dreams no nothing. He got back on his feet, started thinkin that everything would be fine.

But nothing ever goes as planned in the 'Verse.

Addicted, Doc said, no more for you. Locked up his supplies, gave the mercenary something weaker to wean him off the drug.

But it didn't work.

The sleepless nights returned and the crew began to worry. They talked about him behind his back, cornered him in the dinning room, demanded to know what haunted their mercenary. And when he wouldn't talk, Mal threatened to throw him out the airlock, ordered him to put an end to his problems.

But nothing ever goes as planned in the 'Verse.

He didn't know how to fix his problem without the drugs. It was the only thing keeping her outta his head at night.

Broke into the meds, got the name of the drug. Not stupid enough to steal from the doc. Went of on his own, got a supply for himself and silenced the stares and the worry.

Sleep returned. One pill… Two pills… Three pills… No Dreams… Lost track of the days and the nights… lived in a beautiful blur of silence.

Things almost returned to normal.

Until he woke up in the infirmary, Mal and Doc leaning over him; one was looking pissed, other looking concerned.

Overdose, where'd you get…

Stupid inbred…

Should've consulted….

What the hell is wrong…

Blocked out their voices, closed his eyes. Imagined himself somewhere else, anywhere else, imagined putting an end to the questions and pain. Knew then that he needed to get off the ship, knew that his only escape would be to leave Serenity. He was starting to think that anything would be a better deal now, own bunk and kitchen privileges weren't what they used to be.

But nothing ever goes as planned in the 'Verse.

He fought off their questions, avoided the glances, and assured them he wouldn't take the drugs again. Even let the doc keep a monitor on him. He went sleepless for another week until they hit port.

He never was one for friendly goodbyes, preferred them blunt and painful like they ought to be. Wasn't planning on leaving any note, had always told Mal that one day something better would come along and he'd be gone, either quietly or in a burst of gunfire.

Planned it all, offered to stay on the ship with River and Book. Waited till he knew that they were both preoccupied and headed towards his bunk to grab his guns and go, slip off the ship while no one was looking.

But nothing ever goes as planned in the 'Verse.

She stood in the hallway, blocking the path to his bunk, large eyes watching him intently as if she'd known of his dreams all along.

She took a step forward… He took a step back…

They moved in their silent dance in a reversal of roles, him dazed and confused while she appeared confident and sure. He wasn't sure how long it lasted until his back hit a wall and forced a stop to his side of the dance, but she moved forward and forward, and closer and closer. Until her body had to have been but a hair's width away, nearly touching.

His eyes narrowed in on her lips, recalling a thousand dreams where they had played across his skin, tasting his own. His hands clutched at the wall, already knowing every curve, begging to taste the real thing when they ought to have strangled, pushed her away, thrown her across the hall, or done anything and everything to get away from her.

But nothing ever goes as planned in the 'Verse.

She rose to her tiptoes, hands slipped up his arms, curving around his shoulder blades, bodies now touching in every place possible.

He closed his eyes and hoped to god it was a dream. Felt her lips touch his collar bone gently as her nails dug into his t-shirt. Felt his body scream to take action, felt his fear growing and seizing his pounding heart and his body reacting as it ought not to when cornered by a crazy girl. Felt his mind push around the acceptable options and knew that he was screwed.

But if he had to go down it would be in a blaze of fire whole heartedly into his destruction, not looking back over his shoulder, no looking back.

His hands jumped from wall to her waist and he flipped them around, his body pressing her against the wall. Eyes flashed open to watch her reaction, hands gripped her legs to wrap them around his waist as his weight kept her smaller form supported against the wall.

You don't kiss a woman; it means emotional attachment, opens you up for hurt and pain. He's told himself that a thousand times over and had never broken his rule. Lips, not eyes, are the personal keys to a lover's soul. Yet he'd lost all control and he realized it when he leaned his head down, breaking his own primary rule by kissing her. They were bruising kisses delivered with an unchecked ferocity that sent spikes of pain and pleasure down his spine. Tasting and moaning all at once. Exploring the curves of her mouth and unconsciously loving every moment.

The sound of footsteps on grating broke through the haze he'd created and he jumped away from her. Leaving the girl to lean panting against the wall he retreated to hide from her in his bunk.

He was lost and confused, unsure of his own actions.

He splashed his face with cool water from the sink, paced his bunk like a caged animal and collected his thoughts. It's wrong, all wrong. Touching her, feeling her, all wrong. He'd lost his chance to escape… but, next port, next port they hit he'd leave, no stopping him next time. Leave before it got too bad.

But nothing ever goes as planned in the 'Verse.


	2. Rules of the Game

Rules of the Game. By Lady Cleo

Continuance off Nothin' Goes as Planned in the Verse

All Disclaimers' Apply

Note: Wasn't going to continue but this story popped up and decided that I might try to give Nothin' a few more chapters and round it out…

* * *

"The paths we choose in life define us." Jayne's father had once told him. "But it's the games you decide to play that make you who you are. Life, son, is just one series of games waiting to be finished." The teenager had brushed his father's words off like most do. But now that the boy was a man, his father's words came back into focus because he was playing a very dangerous game. 

_Rough hands gently slide up creamy thighs, pushing the hem of a red dress up._

He had always enjoyed living his life on the edge of control, balancing one way or the other, never quite steady on the path. It was more exciting for him when he held power in his hands, it was more fun to take life as he liked. He loved getting what he wanted when he wanted it, but he also enjoyed the fear that came with the wild and unexpected, he liked it when blood coursed through his veins and his heart ran on adrenaline alone.

_Moans whispered against skin, lips begged and pleaded._

The life of a mercenary gave him what he wanted. The choice and power, the fear and adrenaline, theses were all things he could manipulate on the edge of control. To stray either way could mean death. To lose absolute control would be fun but only for a moment and then he'd have to pay the price with his life. To gain absolute control would bring boredom for a lifetime, something he personally couldn't stand. So he kept to his tracks and stayed balanced on the edge.

"_Jayne…Jayne…"_

But unlike all the other games when his game, this game he was playing, ended, it would be the end of all games. He'd calculated all possible endings, played with the numbers, the situations and the consequences of those situations, and knew he was humped. No matter the outcome he would lose and it would cost him his life. But stopping the game wasn't an option.

_Small hands fisted into short dark hair, white teeth digging into the exposed skin of a shoulder blade._

Sleepless nights, strong addictive meds, even an attempt to escape the boat, none of those had worked to stop the old problem and it had cost him dearly, threatening his very sanity. But this game keeps the old problem at bay, lets him sleep through the night at the eventual cost of his life. To stop the game would force the return of old problems. And the dreams of her sprawled beneath him could very well drive him over the edge. He's caught in her trap, tangled up in her limbs.

_Fingers slide up arms, curve around shoulder blades, nails digging into soft flesh._

He fights to keep his balance on the edge of control, to ensure that he doesn't fall yet, to keep on trudging along the fine line until he runs out of space. But he's getting tired and finding it harder and harder to fight the pull of gravity. He just has to remember the rules to keep himself balanced. And the rules of the game are simple;

Rule One: Don't get caught.

Because to be caught is to lose the game, to lose control, and though there are multiple outcomes, none of them are good. If he loses he knows that it'll put him six feet under ground, or revolving in space without a suit, deserted on a barren planet where he'll die slowly if he's lucky. There are no alternatives as he can't see any way he'd survive if the crew caught them playing the game.

So he's careful. They only play in the dark shadows of the ship, when nobody's around to watch. When sleep has fallen or everyone else is preoccupied. He'll be walking through the cargo bay and a small hand will reach out and grab him, pull him behind a container and the game will start. Bodies pressing close together, lips meeting in frantic kisses, they'll tumble to the dirty floor where there's better access to body parts. And hands will glide over smooth skin as hips come into tight contact. And there's quiet moaning and long tasting of flesh, arching backs and hands that explore and tease.

Rule Two: Don't take it all the way.

To fully possess her, to join their bodies into one is not an option. Though it may not end the game, she'd have win, she'd have gotten what she wanted; him. To fully take her would cement the addiction he's forming for her flesh, would leave him un-sated for the rest of his life, in constant need of the one woman, or turn him careless and insure the breaking of rule one.

As time goes by this rule may get harder to follow. The touching and kissing may be enough for him today, but maybe not tomorrow. As it is she's easy enough to satisfy on most days, but sometimes it isn't enough, and she'll beg and plead for him, grind her hips, touch and tease, try and coax him into breaking the rule. But he holds steady, fighting her off, tempting her with other thrills. Like foolishly endangering rule one by moving them closer to crew; she gets a kick out of the idea of almost getting caught and it distracts her from what she wants.

Rule Three: No removal of clothing.

Unbuttoned, pushed around, bunched up, anything goes in order to allow better access to flesh, but no removal. It creates too many problems. If clothes are removed they must be returned to the body and that takes time. Time they may not have when a crewmate is approaching. A lack of clothing could also allow for the possibility of losing control and the full meeting and connecting of bodies. Rule three ensures that rules one and two are not broken.

Instead they are creative. Skirts and shirts are easy to move around but dresses and pants not so much. Hands can slip under and into and still have decent access to skin. Unbuttoning and unzipping helps expose and are easy enough to fix if someone's coming. Bunched up skirts are more challenging and fun to work around, and it keeps him on the edge. And though most of the time it leaves them in compromising positions with hands and limbs tangled in, under and around clothing, it's still safer then removing them.

Rule Four: Leave no visible marks.

Marks can be called signs of possession, consequences of skin touching skin. But in this game they're dangerous after effects. He can't leave them in visible spots where a pair of wandering eyes might notice them. It would be too hard to explain away a hickey on the crazy girl and he'd be the first and only target. Who else but the "evil mercenary without morals" would touch a crazy girl like that? Never mind who started it, never mind that she wants it.

This rule does not apply to her as he can easily explain off her teeth marks with a waggled eyebrow and a "got lucky in the last town." The scratch marks down his backs are, "one time, got in this fight… with a bear" or other such nonsense they won't believe but won't question either. And she does mark him every chance she gets. She seems to particularly enjoy biting him, but she also uses her nails on whatever skin is exposed. He doesn't mind it, has fun explaining them away and the scars heal, unlike the one on his chest that remains as a permanent maker, proof that he belongs to her.

Rule Five: Keep quiet.

Moans, whispered names are allowed as long as they're quiet or muffled. No screams of passion, or hard loud grunts that may echo in their surroundings. Sound travels through a ship remarkable well, and unless masked by the hum of a nearby engine there's always the chance of being heard. Anything above a whisper can be a threat to rule one.

Being able to control himself and keep quiet is extremely convenient on all accounts. But that doesn't mean they're always silent. He's had to shut her up a couple times, using his hand, his lips, pressing her face into his chest to muffle her louder moans and gasps. He has to watch her carefully and read the signs to know when to kiss her in order in keep the noise level down.

Rule Six: Don't involve a bed.

Beds are places where sleep is allowed to come; they're comfortable places where control is spirited away. And though the security of a room with a locked door might ensure the keeping of rule one, it might also lead to the breaking of rules two through five. Therefore beds are not to be trusted, nor to be used or sought after during the game.

Instead other places are utilized. If the ship's powered down for artificial night, the glow of the engine room is suitable for playing. It provides ample lighting for exposing flesh and though the grated floor is hard, a back pressed up against the warm engine is suitable. If the entire crew's down by the infirmary or in the cargo bay, the dinning table suits all purposes. It's hard enough that it ensures no real comfort and if anyone is coming they can separate quickly, stay in the same room and not receive questioning stares. His favorite though is the cargo bay floor. The containers provide ample security, and it's hard not to hear anybody coming. Her favorite seems to be the empty shuttle. She likes using the pilots' chair. But it's more dangerous in there, he can't hear when someone's coming and if someone does interrupt, there's no place to run.

Rule Seven: Do not at any time become too comfortable.

In all appearances it seems to be the weakest rule, the one least likely to have great and terrible consequences. But this one's a link to rules one through six and a vital key to ensuring that the game continues. To break it may very well break all others and he could lose on multiple accounts, would gain the pleasure of connecting to her only to lose her when Mal throws him out the airlock

But sometimes it's the hardest to obey. When the game's done for the day, it's hard to see how letting her cuddle to his chest could hurt them. It's hard for him to not hold her and gently kiss her over and over again. It's hard not to want to fall asleep with her tucked in his arms or on his lap. It's hard not to wanna stay and listen to her ramblings, her crazy girly talk that he secretly enjoys. And it's hard not to want to comb through her hair with his fingers, soothe down the wild mane and whisper words in her ear. And sometimes he can't stop himself.

The rules are not to be broken, bent maybe, twisted, but never broken. To break the rules would be to ensure his loss, possibly his death. So he must walk on the edge of control and keep his balance in the game he's gotten himself locked into. He must avoid the end the best he can and forget about the other thing his father once told him; "Rules are meant to protect you, boy, they're meant to ensure you don't get yourself hurt or worse; maimed, killed or broken. They're meant to ensure that you stay smart and sane so you can keep on playing the game. But nothing ever goes as planed in the 'Verse, boy, and the rules are sometimes meant to be broken."


End file.
